Hans Kirst - The Night of the Generals

An extract from the draft of General von Seydlitz-Gabler’s memoirs: “The events of July 20th moved us deeply. However, they did not accord with Prussian tradition, and any would-be comparison with the Convention of Tauroggen is absurd. There, the King sanctioned an overt proceeding by virtue of his divine right. In Hitler’s case, circumstances were quite different. However one regards him, it cannot be denied that he was elected by a majority of the people. He owed his position to what was, in essence, a democratic process, and we soldiers had no real choice but to obey the voice of the Fatherland.

“For all that, I find myself profoundly and repeatedly moved whenever I reflect on the events of July 20th. My soldier’s heart belonged to the rebels but my soldier’s conscience owed allegiance to the Reich alone, for ever since the beginning of recorded history the axiom has always been: good is what serves the State, evil what harms it.

“I do not mean by this that I stood aloof, but I was extraordinarily conscious of the deep conflict, the vast gulf that divided otherwise like-minded brother officers. At this period I used to pace up and down for hours on end, seeking a solution which would be acceptable to all. I confess now that I never found it. One thing, however, I could do. I refrained from victimizing anyone. On the contrary, I protected those who were venturing the impossible for maintaining an attitude of chivalrous forbearance. Not a few of them owe me their lives, but gratitude is not what the true soldier expects. He merely does his duty.

“That, and that alone, is what I and many of my best friends did. Only this makes it possible for us to look history in the eye today.”

Telephone conversation between Commissioner Karpfen in Berlin and Detective-Inspector Liebig in Dresden, conducted on 21st September, 1956 and recorded in writing by a member of the East German State Security Service. This man, whose name is unimportant, abandoned the German Democratic Republic in May, 1959, bringing a number of official papers with him, among them the following shorthand transcripts:

Karpfen: “How far have you got with your inquiries?”

Liebig: “On-the-spot investigations are complete.”

Karpfen: “Any clue as to who did it?”

Liebig: “No. All the leads we have are vague and obviously misleading. However, I’ve put every available man on to the case, so far without definite results.”

Karpfen: “Is there any indication that the crime could have—hm, political connotations?”

Liebig: “Absolutely none. It’s a straightforward murder. Revolting, though, the way the body was mutilated.”

Karpfen: “To make myself even plainer, Liebig—is there anything to suggest that the crime was committed by someone—how shall I put it?—of a certain standing—someone who might need handling with a certain measure of discretion?”

Liebig: “Not the slightest indication, sir.”

Karpfen: “Monsieur Prévert, whom you probably know by name, thinks he knows of a parallel case. What’s your reaction to that?”

Liebig: “If a parallel case did exist it would help us considerably.”

Karpfen: “I’m glad you think so, Liebig. Kindly report to me here tomorrow and bring all the particulars with you. Well see where we go from there.”

From a letter written to Rainer Hartmann by Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler. There are at least eighty such letters in existence, though none of them ever reached its destination. Ulrike von Seydlitz-Gabler wrote them over a period of twelve years but never sent them because she had no idea of the addressee’s whereabouts, or even if he were still alive: ‘If I go on writing to you over and over again it’s because I can’t think of any more soothing and absorbing occupation. Why are women such fundamentally helpless creatures? I believe that of all the millions of men in the world there’s only one who’s right for a particular woman. Since the odds are against her ever meeting him, she has to adapt herself to another man—which she usually does with loyalty and devotion. But if you have the luck or misfortune, whichever way you look at it, to find a man—one man among millions—who stirs you to the bottom of your soul, what do you do then? There’s nothing to do but wait, even if it means waiting for a lifetime.

“It’s hopeless—I know it is—but I refuse to think about it logically. I go on waiting and hoping. Did you know I had a photograph of you? During the day it stands on my desk and at night it lives beside my bed. It’s just an ordinary snap-shot, blurred and fingered and faded after all these years, but it shows you and me together in Warsaw, where it all began. God only knows how it will end, and when.”

Two telegrams, both sent from Berlin on 21st September, 1956.

Telegram to R. Hartmann, 13 Rue Victor Hugo, Antibes:

“Visiting Berlin. Ideal opportunity to see you. Staying Niederschönhausen with Aunt Grete. Longing to see you. Please fly at once to your old Mother.”

Telegram to Edouard Manessier, borough councillor and building contractor, Place de la République, Antibes:

“Need Hartmann urgently. Have sent wire on mother’s behalf. Please eliminate difficulties advance money arrange passport personally. Will reimburse all expenses. Treat as important confidential urgent. Regards Prévert.”

Kahlenberge appeared in the lobby of the Hotel am Kurfürstendamm punctually at the appointed hour, but Prévert was not installed in any of the handsome armchairs which were scattered around for the convenience of guests. Strolling over to the reception desk, he asked for an evening paper and seated himself near the entrance, from which point of vantage he studied the hotel’s luxurious décor with a pensive eye.

A page approached discreetly. “Herr Kahlenberge?” he murmured. “There’s a call for you, sir—Herr Prévert on the line.”

Kahlenberge followed the boy to the phone booth and picked up the receiver.

“I’ve been detained, mon vieux,” Prévert said. “So I must ask you to wait for me. I hope you won’t be bored—in fact, I’m quite certain you won’t.”

“No?” drawled Kahlenberge.

“It’s quite possible you may run into an old friend of yours.”

“Good God, Prévert, you haven’t billeted von Seydlitz-Gabler here, too, have you?”

“But, of course. Why should we disperse our forces? Besides, my dear fellow, you might bear in mind that an invitation to Tanz will carry more weight if it comes from von Seydlitz-Gabler.”

Returning to the lobby, Kahlenberge sat down again and resumed his vigil, this time concentrating his attention on the stairs leading to the first floor. Before many minutes had passed he saw a figure descending with stately tread, an elderly gentleman with silver-streaked hair, patrician features and the erect carriage of a regimental sergeant-major. He moved with a regal dignity that would have put a Shakespearean actor to shame.

Von Seydlitz-Gabler gave a momentary start when he caught sight of Kahlenberge, and for a brief few seconds his sublime composure deserted him. Then he stretched out both hands and summoned up a smile.

“Kahlenberge! What an unexpected surprise! The age of miracles isn’t past, after all. What brings you here, my dear chap?”

“I’m supposed to be giving a lecture here.”

“And I’m bringing out my memoirs,” von Seydlitz-Gabler explained with a hint of pride. “It seems to have got around. I’ve had publishers literally battering at my door. They scent the truth, I expect, and truth’s a saleable commodity these days. We’re thinking in terms of three volumes and an illustrated prospectus. There’s a possibility of selling the film rights to Hollywood. I’ve already had a number of offers from abroad.”